


Fire Damage

by constellationqueen



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Espionage, Established Relationship, I'm actually not sure what this is, M/M, fighting and guns and violence, tags to be added probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-28 13:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12607424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constellationqueen/pseuds/constellationqueen
Summary: "All warfare is based on deception." - Sun Tzu,The Art of War





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (and the subsequent mess of a fic) is based on [this beautiful art](http://requiemofkings.tumblr.com/post/166660825035/good-night-child) by [requiemofkings.](http://requiemofkings.tumblr.com/)

Andrew nudges Neil into their room and watches him shuffle inside, appearing a good bit drunk without a drop in him. “The next time you want to risk endangering the mission,” Andrew says once the door is closed and the lock has been slid home, “leave me out of it.” He arms their security system, the pocket-sized one that Renee insists gives them a perimeter of the room’s exact boundaries. Andrew believes her, but Neil is low-tech, so Andrew sets the far cheaper early-warning system of a string, a crowbar, and a bell as well before backing away from the door.

Neil scoffs, the drunk act dropped, and Andrew turns to find him already shucking off his tie, working out of his grey jacket. “Please. You’d be bored if I wasn’t constantly keeping you on your toes.” Neil finally discards the thin outerwear, and he’s left standing in just the black button-up and trousers. Andrew never liked the color on him.

“Bored but alive,” Andrew says, stepping forward to start undoing the buttons of Neil’s shirt. Inch by inch, scarred flesh opens up to him, ending too soon when Andrew tugs the shirt free of Neil’s waistband.

The soft hum that slips from Neil is just as soothing as the man’s fingers skimming Andrew’s throat before working at undoing his tie. “But where’s the fun in that?”

Andrew settles a glare on the idiot, but Neil doesn’t meet his gaze, focused on his own long fingers and the path they sear down Andrew’s front as they undo each button with an artist’s precision.

“I hate it when you flirt on the job.” Andrew’s throat is tight despite the shedding of his tie and the loosening of his collar.

It doesn’t seem to be any sort of a problem for Neil. “Makes information easier to come by. And she was touch-starved and lonely; I was barely even flirting.”

Reading between Neil’s thin lines is so easy now that it should be terrifying, but Andrew only ever finds himself at ease for his efforts. “It’s not a job requirement, Neil.”

“Is that why you’re in a mood?” Neil asks, pushing Andrew’s shirt from his shoulders and finally meeting his eyes. “It’s not as if it wasn’t consensual; I was the one who initiated.”

Andrew meets Neil’s gaze unwaveringly, and sighs when he sees only Neil’s usual brand of honesty. He hates that Neil knows him so well, just the same way that he hates how well he knows Neil. Getting so close to someone is dangerous, opens them to the risk of loss and the blindness of revenge. Andrew got in this business to get away from those ghosts, but they’ve found him anyway. He calls Neil the murder magnet, but it’s… possible that it’s the both of them. “I’m going to start bringing a thesaurus with me and beating you with it,” Andrew says, running his hands along Neil’s torso one last time before stepping away. “Maybe that will finally get through your thick skull.”

Neil blinks at him, three shades of confused, but he just shakes his head and undresses the rest of the way, trading out dress clothes for a blue t-shirt and skinny jeans. Andrew tugs on his skin-tight sleeveless shirt that gives him maximum movement and watches the hunger that engulfs Neil’s gaze. As soon as they’re someplace safe, Andrew’s going to bury himself in Neil and not emerge for hours. With this part of the mission wrapped up, they should be back at home in under three hours. They can both wait that long, even if Andrew could use an adrenaline fuck right now.

The sultry way Neil walks up to Andrew and reaches out to play with his piercing doesn’t help, either. But Andrew is nothing if not a vice of control, so all he does is kiss the inside of Neil’s wrist with a promise of later, and steps away to start packing.

 _‘Will you two stop flirting and just get out of there?’_ Kevin’s voice hisses through Andrew’s ear piece. His scowl must alert Neil, because the other man narrows his eyes and taps at his own ear in question. Neil doesn’t wear an ear piece, considers them distracting and doesn’t see a need for one when Andrew is so good at relaying the messages to him. Fucking bastard.

Andrew nods and mouths ‘Kevin,’ and Neil rolls his eyes in response. “Tell him to shut the fuck up and leave us alone.”

Kevin huffs, because the microphones on these are expensive and sensitive. _‘Well you can tell him –’_

“I’m not a carrier pigeon,” Andrew snaps, clicking shut the suitcase with his and Neil’s clothes. “Is there something that you wanted, Day, or are you just trying to live vicariously through us again?”

Even Neil winces at that. Maybe it was a low blow – so what? Kevin should know better than to interrupt them for something pointless.

The other end of the earpiece is silent for a while, and in that silence Neil and Andrew pace through the room, picking up anything that could be used against them and stuffing it into Andrew’s shoulder bag. Normally their gear is larger and a hell of a lot more practical, but they run less on necessity when they’re meant to be playing a part. Middle-class businessmen don’t typically carry utility backpacks, which is their loss, really.

When the line picks up again, sound pitching into a burdened sigh, the voice on the other end is Boyd’s. _‘We just wanted to let you both know that the target is off the premises and the tracker is working. You’re clear to leave.’_

“Excellent, thank you for getting to the point. We’ll be on the street in ten or less.” The finality in Andrew’s voice keeps Matt from saying anything else, and he and Neil can finish cleaning up in piece. “Start taking down the perimeter and I’ll do a final sweep,” Andrew directs at his lover, ignoring Neil’s rebuttal muttering about Andrew not being the boss of him. The man can be such a child, really.

Andrew takes a step and glass shatters, so loud that Andrew thinks he must have stepped on something – a shot-sized bottle of liquor, maybe, or one of the glass crystals that fill the flower vase on the vanity to his left. But the dull thud that follows isn’t his doing, can’t be explained away by something like that.

“Andrew.”

No. _No._ He knows what he’s going to see before he turns, but he’s never ready to see Neil bleeding, arm pressed across his abdomen, blood weeping from between tense fingers and white knuckles. “Boyd!” Andrew shouts, and rushes across the room to grab Neil before his weak knees send him crashing to the floor. “Neil – 10’s been hit. We’re compromised.”

_‘What? 03, repeat that.’_

“I said we’re fucking compromised,” Andrew snaps, hooking Neil’s arm over his shoulder and yanking him out of the way as another bullet rips into the room, shattering the mirror above the vanity. Andrew watches a single petal fall off of a white rose, and then he moves.

He props Neil against the wall and tells him to stay with a hard shove to his chest. It’s a quick dive across the room to where his shoulder bag is propped on a chair, and he snags it and hits the ground rolling, hiding himself behind the bed and barely misses a third bullet. He watches it shatter into the back of the chair and then glances at Neil and the mirror, connecting the three impacts together. “They’re using 5.56 NATO rounds,” he says, voice too loud in the anticipation of death hanging in the room, but far too quiet after the escape of a bullet. “Who the fuck are these guys?”

_‘Amateurs? Or just trying to throw you off?’_

“Not my fucking job, 04. Earn your own keep,” Andrew says, propping his feet under his body and propelling himself forward. He’s not as lucky this time, and the round grazes his shoulder, but he catches himself against the wall next to Neil.

“They’re using… an M4?” he asks, swallowing thickly, his head tipped back and blue eyes barely open. “Fucking… why?”

Andrew rips a bandage out of his bag. He can’t answer Neil’s question, but he knows at least what’s going on. “Flushing us out,” he says. They can’t stay here forever. “It is interesting that they don’t seem to want us dead.”

Neil snorts, and Andrew uses the distraction to shove Neil’s hand out of the way and slap the bandage on. Neil muffles a curse and a shout into the fleshy part of his thumb, teeth flashing white but not drawing any of their own blood. The bandage isn’t going to do much in the long run, might barely hold until they can get onto the street, but that’s all Andrew needs. Though a miracle and a hospital would be appreciated.

“I… hate you… sometimes,” Neil grits, his hand dropping to rest in Andrew’s hair. “Too… god damn calm. Always make… makes me think I’m about to die.”

Andrew stands up and presses Neil’s hand back to his side. There isn’t an exit wound, so the bullet is still inside of him, and Andrew knows exactly how much pain Neil’s in right now. “Someone has to keep a level head. It’s not my fault that you never think things through and only have yourself to use as a comparison.”

“…asshole,” Neil mutters, but he meets Andrew’s lips in a quick kiss anyway.

Andrew presses Neil’s Walther compact into his hand. “Shoot if you can, otherwise stay on me.”

“Oooh you wish,” Neil says, sarcasm and insinuations heavy in his tone, but his eyes are hard and flat, pinched in determination as he pushes away from the wall. His first step is wobbly, but Andrew waits, and his second step is much more solid. It’ll be slow going, but barring any further – yeah, no, they’re not that lucky.

“If I have to carry you out of here, I’m going to be pissed,” Andrew says, sliding the clip out of his Beretta to shove an extra round into it, at full capacity now with one in the chamber. His knives, as always, are tucked into his armbands, just waiting for the moment they inevitably get their taste of blood. Neil’s the faster, better shot, so with him down, the knives are going to see more use than they usually do.

_’09 says to press the yellow button on the alarm system and then get the hell out.’_

“I remember,” Andrew says. He adjusts his bag over his shoulder, making sure that the strap is tight so that he won’t lose it. Renee is good at her job – the best – but some things Andrew just won’t leave to chance, and hoping that damnable things like engagement rings and DNA will get destroyed is not on his agenda. That’s shit he needs to be sure about, to keep Neil safe. He glares at Neil with his hand hovering over the alarm. “Say. On. Me.” And then he presses the button and jerks open the door.

It’s chaos from the first second. The shooter across the street was a flusher and a distraction, keeping them occupied long enough to get the other men closer. Andrew gets off one shot and Neil two before they’re surrounded. Andrew discharges his clip and throws his gun and doesn’t miss it, following the distraction with a lunge and a jerk of his knife. There’s a rush of blood and then nothing. Neil shouts and Andrew’s worldview narrows, back to the idiot with the bright red hair and those stupid blue eyes. The idiot who blocks a knife and fires a shot, nearly killing Andrew’s hearing. But it incapacitates everyone else, too.

Andrew becomes a ghost as he works his way back to Neil, ripping his way through the men who become bodies. Neil shouts again, gesturing, but Andrew just hooks an arm around Neil’s waist and yanks him away from the room rigged to blow.

They wasted too much time.

Not even to the elevators yet, the explosion knocks them off their feet, sending them careening into the wall, falling hard to the floor. Andrew drags his body over Neil’s, protecting him from the anger of the survivors, the shouts and the bullets that Neil blindly returns their way.

“They’re definitely trying to kill us now,” Neil says, blood in his mouth that makes his words thick and unpleasant.

Andrew rolls off of him and helps him to his feet, steadying him when he sways. “Maybe,” Andrew says, assessing the damage. He doesn’t want to tell Neil what he really thinks, not right now. It can wait until they’re safe, until the martyr can’t do anything about it.

“Are you a whetting stone now?” Neil teases, his way of bitching about all of Andrew’s blood soaking into him when he drapes his arm around Neil. Andrew says nothing, just tightens his hold and gets them moving. “Maybe if you hadn’t thrown your fucking gun at them…”

“I don’t need a lecture from you, mister I-don’t-wear-a-comm.-piece-or-carry-more-than-four-weapons-at-any-one-time.” Andrew leans around the corner of the stairwell and starts them down, not trusting the elevator to still be the fastest way out of here.

Neil snorts, but it’s followed with a cough, and it sounds rough and wet and painful. “I don’t need more than four, because I don’t throw perfectly good side arms at the enemy.”

“I hate you,” Andrew says. He supports nearly all of Neil’s weight as they move down the stairs, Neil somehow still gripping his gun, three bullets down and seven left to go. Andrew still has all five knives, his longest one ready in his hand, and his own compact holstered to his thigh. They had to come into this mission light, what with their covers to uphold, and he’s regretting it now. Better to have and not need than to need and not have.

He’s going to kill Wymack.

They’re just about to the ground floor when Neil stumbles and Andrew nearly loses his hold. “Not good,” Neil whispers, looking down at the bullet wound. Andrew follows his gaze, finds blood flowing freely through the bandage, and curses colorfully enough to get Boyd’s attention.

_‘What?’_

“You better have a getaway car, that’s what,” Andrew says, steadying Neil against the wall. They can’t stay here long, need to get out before the opposing side catches up with them, but they both need to breathe.

_‘How bad is he?’_

Andrew’s jaw clenches tight enough to hurt, tight enough that Neil notices and rests his palm against Andrew’s cheek until he relaxes. “You know just as well as I do that 5.56 NATOs have a tendency to yaw in soft flesh. He’s running on borrowed time.” Andrew meets Neil’s gaze when he says the last part, and Neil nods because he knows. Neil doesn’t have the encyclopedia of knowledge in his head the way Andrew does, but it’s his body. Anyone else would have passed out by now. Andrew isn’t ashamed to count himself in those numbers.

_‘Fuck. 01’s working on it. Give us time.’_

“We don’t have any more of that to give you,” Andrew says, nodding once at Neil before tugging him back into the shelter of his arms and taking them down the stairs.

The main level of the hotel looks… normal. Andrew feels filthy walking across the lobby with so much blood dripping a damning trail onto the floor, Neil stumbling beside him, tucked into Andrew’s side.

Someone screams, but Andrew doesn’t have time for them. Someone else yells to call 911, and Neil huffs out something that might be a laugh or might be ‘useless civilians,’ but he’s fading fast and Andrew’s ears are still ringing from all of the close-quarter shooting.

The moment they step out onto the street, they’re target practice again. Andrew snarls and jerks Neil along with him as he runs to the side, ignoring a bullet that plants itself in his thigh and just keeps dragging Neil and shielding him until they’re around the side of the building. Andrew collapses against the smooth brick, holding Neil against his chest.

A bullet buries itself in the wall opposite them, but it’s obvious that whoever is shooting at them wasn’t prepared for Andrew and Neil to run down the street. The safe thing would have been to stumble back into the lobby, but they would have been trapped there.

Neil’s breath stutters in wet rasps against the column of Andrew’s neck, and the weight of him is shaking against Andrew’s chest. “Hang in there, 10,” Andrew says, thumb brushing over Neil’s spine. He hates calling Neil by his number, but names are traceable. Numbers mean nothing.

The forced huff that follows is definitely a laugh this time, sardonic though it may be. “C-can’t.”

“Yes, you _can_ ,” Andrew says. Neil has survived worse, Andrew thinks. Neil has survived so many fucking horrors; he refuses to let a stupid anonymous bullet take him out.

_’03, where are you?’_

“Surrounded,” is Andrew’s immediate response to his twin’s voice, but sarcasm isn’t going to get Neil to a hospital. “North. Around the side of the hotel. That bastard with the M4 is shooting at us, and there’re three people on the –”

He stops talking to the feel of Neil’s body slumping, going completely boneless in a fight against Andrew’s strength to hold him up. There’s no hiss of breath against Andrew’s skin, no twitch of a hand gripping the back of his shirt.

“Neil?”

But it’s just Neil’s death and the drip of his blood onto Andrew’s boot echoing in the emptiness of the alley.


	2. Chapter 2

**79 hours (and a time zone) earlier**

Andrew’s hands fit perfectly on the hook of Neil’s hips, his fingers tipped into the indent of skin where the bone gives way to squishy flesh pretending to be as hard as the planes of Neil’s scarred stomach. In the dark room, Andrew has no qualms about dipping his head down to kiss the side of Neil’s neck, lips pressing just under the silver chain holding up his engagement ring. Neil hums and leans back into Andrew, his weight solid and warm – more than welcome.

“Sorry!” Nicky pants, bursting in as if he had used the slamming of his body into the door to slow down his momentum. Allison follows him, but there’s no apology from her, just a cool look cast around the room before she moves to stand beside Renee. Nicky continues apologizing as he walks over to Aaron. “Sorry, we got caught up in some minor details.”

Andrew makes sure that his cousin is unharmed despite how harried he looks, and when he’s sure that the fool isn’t bleeding or bruised anywhere visible, he returns his attention front, eyes cast to where Wymack is standing at the head of the room. Kevin is the man’s shadow, glaring around the room in a dare for another setback.

“Since we’re all here now, if we’re done with the dramatics, I would like to let you all know what our next mission is.” Wymack narrows his gaze at Nicky and Allison, and after another moment, he clicks on the presentation. All of these slide shows make Andrew feel like he’s back in junior high, but Neil seems to like the simplicity of continuing to do things the old fashioned way. They’ll all have dossiers to read later, detailing their own individual parts of the mission, yet for some reason, Wymack still insists on the waste of time that is such a broad overview.

“Alright, so we’re stepping away from the CIA for a moment and getting back to the FBI. They contracted us yesterday, and they want this handled as quickly as possible, but to keep it quiet. It’s not quite black ops level, but aim for being as covert as possible. Our target is Amelia Kallenbach.” A picture of the woman appears on the screen, illuminating the room with a sad smile and a wash of rich brown hair framing a face that could have been conventionally pretty twenty years ago with the right amount of makeup. “She’s the assistant of a man known only as ‘Mr. Jones.’ Kevin and I are assuming that’s an alias, and you all should be as well. We don’t know anything about him, except that he appears rather close to Ms. Kallenbach, keeps in close contact with someone via a phone number that remains constant, and runs a sex traffic ring.”

Andrew stiffens at that, and inside the box of his arms, Neil freezes, too. “I swear to god, if we have to infiltrate that…” Andrew doesn’t finish his warning, because he doesn’t think he needs to. He’s not letting any of his family or the rest of these assholes near something like that.

Wymack’s expression is firm but gentle. “Hopefully it doesn’t come to that. I think you’re all competent enough to keep it far away from that scenario. Anyway, our goal for right now is to get some information from Ms. Kallenbach, but mostly we need to put a tracker on her. Should be an easy in and out, one day affair. The whole mission is going to be longer, but we’ll take it one step at a time. Ms. Kallenbach is going to be at the Langham Hotel in Chicago this weekend. Luckily, there’s a convention in town at the same time, so two of you will be pretending to attend that and trying to intercept her before she disappears into her room.”

Kevin walks around the briefing room, handing out dossiers. The man used to be an excellent spy – the best of the best, really, which even Andrew will grudgingly admit. But he lost the entirety of the vision in his left eye on a mission, cutting his career short. Wymack had taken him in, given him a job close to the ground in exchange for Kevin’s help whipping his own employees into shape. Kevin is a harsh bastard, and most days Andrew wants nothing more than to beat his goddamn head in, but the man knows what he’s doing.

“I assigned everyone’s positions for this part of the mission,” Kevin starts once he’s handed the last dossier to Dan and returned to the front of the room. “Matt and Aaron, you’re on surveillance. I want eyes and ears everywhere. Ms. Kallenbach is known to travel with a large escort, most of whom we don’t have faces for. I want to know who’s moving and where, and what they’re saying. Dan, you’re backup. Getaway car, needed assistance, whatever; it’s all in the dossier. Just be ready to go in hot if you have to. Andrew and Neil are on point.”

Well… maybe the cocky bastard doesn’t _always_ know what he’s doing.

“I’m sorry,” Allison says, drumming her fingers against her bicep, “what was that? You’re sending the monsters on point for _information_?” Thank god Allison’s throwing a fit, because Andrew’s not happy about it, either. Neil doesn’t seem to care, his shoulders relaxed where they’re resting against Andrew’s chest, but this particular maniac only ever seems to just want to be working – in any capacity possible.

“Yes,” Kevin says, and there’s nothing in his voice to indicate that he’s going to change his mind. “We’re all getting too comfortable in the roles we’ve settled into. If you can’t have a broad range of skills, then you’re going to end up predictable and dead.”

Andrew can understand why Allison is bitter, why Nicky is pouting and not trying to hide it. This is usually their thing, and they’re damn good at it. Fucking chameleons, the both of them. Allison has it easier, since there are far more hair and eye color options available to someone with fair skin, but Nicky can change his whole demeanor, his whole persona, and let it soak into him in just a few days. Andrew can’t do that. He’s always the heavy hitter, the killer. He and Neil are a deadly team with the highest kill count in the United States. They’ve never fucked up a hit, not even during their early days of not trusting each other – the job always came first.

“Allison,” Neil says, piping up for the first time in a few hours and relaxing some tension in Andrew’s chest, “Kevin’s right. Andrew and I need more practice blending in, and you and Nicky are going to have to learn how to aim a little better, too.” That last comment was probably directed more at Nicky, since Allison can brawl with the best of them. It did tend to be difficult hiding weapons in slinky dresses, though, which typically wound up being her problem.

“Fine.” Allison’s lips pinch together, but she doesn’t argue anymore. And thank god, because Andrew wants out of here.

Wymack flaps his hand and kicks on the lights. “Go read through your dossiers. We’ll reconvene in two hours to go over any questions that might pop up between now and then. Otherwise, Allison and Nicky are in charge of wardrobe for Andrew and Neil. Renee… well, you know what to do.” Renee’s smile is bemused but pleased. Andrew’s known her too long to trust that cross around her neck. “Alright, get out of here.”

Andrew pats Neil’s hip to signal to him to stand on his own two feet again, but Neil stays where he is for two more seconds before shifting his weight forward with a sigh. Andrew shifts his dossier to his left hand and tugs Neil’s sleeve, guiding him from the room.

They split off to the right, towards the staircase and the weight room waiting for them a floor lower. Wymack has made a base out of a small office space, clean and functional but nothing fancy. It works, and they have a business cover to displace any ties to the organizations who require their skillset, so that’s all that matters. Andrew would really just like to go home right now and fuck his new fiancé senseless, but they’ll have to make due until normal office hours are over. A shame, really, that this place is covered head to toe in cameras. Not even the supply closets are safe.

“If you’re worried about it, just say so,” Neil says, opening the door and flicking on the lights. There’s a bathroom connected to this room – the reason that Wymack chose it as the workout room – but the shower is a makeshift and shabby fix-job, and there’s no privacy for changing out. It’s why they’re here now, when everyone else is busy doing their own shit. Neil isn’t entirely uncomfortable in his skin anymore, but Andrew can tell that all of those scars, especially the ones inflicted by his own parents, still bother him.

Andrew walks into the bathroom and towards the filing cabinets that serve as lockers for their change of clothes. It’s a redneck solution, really, but it works. The fewer renovations to the office, the fewer questions from the other people who work in the building. “This is probably the safest job we’ve ever worked,” Andrew says, swapping out his turtleneck for a baggy muscle shirt. “The only thing I’m worried about is you getting trigger happy.”

Neil makes a face that Andrew barely catches, but they finish changing out without another word from either of them.

* * *

 

Renee smiles when Andrew and Neil visit her for their gear, her head tipped up while she’s bent over one of her work stations. “You two look lively. Did Allison and Nicky treat you right?”

Neil snorts and deigns not to say anything, for once in his life. Andrew rolls his eyes. “If I wanted to dress like a monkey,” he says, “I wouldn’t be in this line of work. Please tell me you have something more worth my while.”

“I’m sure you both look handsome,” Renee assures, though she straightens up and motions them to follow her over to a different station upon Andrew’s request. “I think you’ll like them.”

Neil approaches the weapons, picking up his Walther compact and the larger P99 model, weighing them in his hands. He always insists on checking his own weapons, but he doesn’t bother prompting Andrew anymore to look over his Berettas. Andrew trusts Renee, far more than he trusts most people. He knows she’s good at her job and doesn’t have a vendetta against him, and that’s all that really matters.

He’s more interested in the tools and gadgets lined up on the other side of the table. “This is it?” There are only two devices. Usually, he and Neil get all of the cool shit, given the depth of their typical missions.

Renee lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “It’s a small mission. You won’t need your usual amount of gear.”

“What if we do?”

“You’re not going in unarmed, Andrew, just downsized. And Dan will be on standby if you need assistance.”

Andrew frowns, not happy that he won’t be going in with his usual armament. Neil, who is only going to be lacking his overabundance of ammo, doesn’t seem nearly as upset. He just keeps checking his guns and Andrew’s, taking them apart to make sure that all the pieces are still there and functional. His ring sways from the chain around his neck as he bends over to lay out the pieces. It’s a simple band of silver with an inlaid string of diamonds, matching Andrew’s perfectly, except the inside of Neil’s band is scratched with the word _pipedream_ , and the inside of Andrew’s says _always_.

“Walk me through it,” Andrew says, turning his attention back to Renee and the two devices placed on the work station.

* * *

 

Matt hands Andrew his earpiece while Aaron talks Neil through the building’s layout one more time. Those two have been getting along better, lately – probably due to Neil’s action as the middleman between Aaron and Katelyn. They’re married, but Aaron doesn’t want to drag Katelyn into the mess that is being a freelance agent. So Neil puts himself at risk because he’s convinced that Katelyn’s family, too.

“We recently upgraded microphones,” Matt explains, swiping through his tablet while Andrew tucks the small piece into his ear, “because _someone_ doesn’t like to wear a headset and we still need to know what he’s saying.” Matt says the accusation fondly while casting a glare over Andrew’s shoulder, though it’s evident that the aggravation over the matter is real. Andrew can relate. Neil just flips Matt off without looking away from Aaron.

“Now,” Matt flips the tablet around to show Andrew the map on the screen, “Aaron and I will be working from here,” he indicates a building, “but we’re hoping to get Dan a little closer. Your target is staying here, fifth floor, and we managed to snag you a room on the third. She’s already checked in, and she’ll be out of there Sunday morning.”

“I read the damn dossier,” Andrew says, feeling Neil come up behind him, arms hooking around his waist to draw back his temper.

Neil rests his chin on Andrew’s shoulder, humming softly in a mindless tune. It’s his anxiety, always kicking in at the start of the mission and never settled until they’re ass-deep in the work. “Keep an eye on her movements tomorrow morning,” Neil says, tipping his head to the side to study the screen of Matt’s tablet. “I want to know when she wakes up, if it’s with an alarm or a phone call from the front desk or what.”

Matt nods, and Andrew watches Aaron slip around behind the tall tech wizard to grab the shoulder bag that Allison made for Andrew. “We’ll try to keep Dan about five minutes away, but Chicago traffic is thick and unpredictable,” Aaron says, handing the bag over so that Andrew can sling it from his shoulder. “If everything goes as planned, you won’t need her and you can just walk down the street after the target leaves.”

The nod that Neil gives in response digs his chin into Andrew’s shoulder. “It’s just a quick in and out, like Wymack said. We’ll be on a plane home Sunday afternoon.”

Andrew isn’t quite as confident, but they’ve handled more difficult missions, so surely a quick information grab will be easy. “When is Kevin going to be in position?” he asks, directing the topic away from the deep end of cockiness.

Matt checks his watch. “Any moment now. As soon as he’s set up, you’re both clear to leave.”

With a sigh in Andrew’s ear, Neil slips away. Andrew follows the motion with a twist of his body in time to watch Neil take his engagement ring from around his neck, holding it out to Andrew. “We’re just business partners this time,” he reminds, voice full of longing and regret. Pinching his mouth, Andrew slips his own chain over his head, wrapping up the two pieces of jewelry and tucking them safely inside a pouch in his shoulder bag.

“Only for a weekend,” Andrew says, and is successful in getting Neil to smile.


	3. Chapter 3

**Present**

Andrew stares down at Neil’s body on the hospital bed and wonders how his life got to this point – how he ended up in a place, in a position so fucked up. Not that his life hadn’t been fucked up before, between the traumas of his childhood, juvie, and a barely-assembled life with Nicky and Aaron before he got on Wymack’s radar. But this is fucked in a different way, a worse way. _Andrew_ is fucked in a different way. He’s so closely bound to another person that he doesn’t know how to begin living without them.

Thankfully, Andrew thinks, he doesn’t have to.

Neil’s eyes flutter open in the way the nurse said they would, disorientation following the butterfly struggle like a puppy seeing the world for the first time. Neil looks around the room in rapid sweeps, taking it in floor to ceiling, probably assessing his body condition all the while. Andrew stays where he is, standing despite the pain, his hands in his pockets and his eyes never leaving Neil.

Finally, Neil’s gaze comes to rest on Andrew, and it doesn’t skip away. He gives an incoherent moan and a soft, “Drew?” and then winces like talking isn’t one of his more brilliant ideas.

“You died,” Andrew says, flat and simple despite the hurricane in his chest, the scratch in his brain that keeps skipping over those two fucking words and how close Andrew came to losing Neil for good.

“Not… that easy to get… rid of me.”

That bottomless pit of anger inside of Andrew wants to yell in the face of Neil’s humor, to make him understand the turmoil that Andrew’s been through. He wants to shout at Neil until he understands that he was dead for five minutes, that it was only a miracle and Andrew’s fists that brought him back, that Andrew nearly shot a fucking civilian because he was so desperate to get Neil into the operating room and get that bullet out of him. He wants to shake Neil’s shoulders and tell him that Andrew can’t put the fucking mission first anymore, can’t even put himself first anymore, because he cares about Neil so goddamn much that it’s a wound in his chest cavity, gaping and infected.

But dwelling on that, on what happened and could have happened, isn’t going to do them any good. It’s not going to get them out of this situation. So he lets that anger and fear out in a rush of breath and limps over to the bed, taking it easy on his shot-up thigh, and eases himself down to sit on the edge of the bed. “Good, because as soon as you can move, we’re leaving. Someone’s gunning for our asses, and I’d rather not try and take them down with _your_ ass hanging out of a hospital gown.”

Neil coughs out a laugh and pushes to sit up more on the inclined bed, but his laughter severs off and his body freezes on a breath. Andrew guesses that Neil’s still in too much pain to go anywhere just yet.

“I said when you can move, not right this minute,” Andrew says. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a tangled ball of silver, which he then presses into Neil’s hand.

“I’m fine,” Neil says, because it’s impossible to really bury habits as engrained as that. Fist gripped around his engagement ring, Neil pushes himself up the rest of the way into a sitting position and then collapses against the pillows, face pinched and ringed with sweat for his efforts. But his eyes are open, and he’s not bleeding through his gown yet. “You got hit,” he says after a few deep breaths, glancing down at Andrew’s thigh in an evident show of awaiting the prognosis. A minor tremor in Neil’s hands as he drops the necklace over his head is the only remaining sign of the amount of pain Neil’s in right now.

Andrew nods. He knew that Neil would never overlook something as important as a limp, a flaw in Andrew’s demeanor, so he hadn’t tried to hide it. “A doctor pulled it out while you were in surgery.” He sent the bullet home with Aaron, hoping to get some sort of answer out of ballistics, but not holding onto a lot of faith. “Gave me some stitches and a nice prescription of morphine.” Too bad he can’t take it. He’ll just give it to Neil or keep them on stash for emergencies.

Neil gives a quiet hum and reaches out with shaking fingers to brush Andrew’s cheek and the slice left behind by a paper-sharp blade. “I missed this one. You weren’t the only one with a knife, huh?”

“Well you were busy bleeding to death, so I’ll let it slide this time.” Andrew presses his hand against Neil’s and draws it away from his face. The tremble in Neil’s hand is so small that Andrew can mask it with a squeeze of his own fingers, like the time Neil forgot to eat for two days and his blood sugar dropped. Andrew hesitates a moment before holding Neil’s hand to his chest. The edge of his ring presses into his sternum, hissing out a touch of pain from a bruise there, but that only succeeds in making this more real, in solidifying in Andrew’s mind that Neil is really alive.

Neil smiles, and he finally looks as doped-up as he should. There’s a fuzzy edge to his eyes, his mouth set tenderly on a slack face. It’s a shame that Neil only ever looks this soft when he’s sleeping or on painkillers. Andrew wonders how old Neil was when he started growing his edges. Was it at three years old, after the first time his mother slapped him to make him quiet? Or at five, when his arm snapped in two places after being pushed down the stairs by his father? Six, after his first training session with Lola? Maybe when he was fourteen, after his mother shot him in the shoulder to gain them a safe place to sleep?

“Where else, besides the bullet?” Neil asks, getting in the way of Andrew’s self-destructive thoughts before they can form.

Andrew squeezes Neil’s hand and then rests it on his thigh. He brushes the curtain of Neil’s bangs away from his eyes, wanting to see more than just shards of iceberg blue. “Someone made a mess of your arm hacking at it with a knife. Five cuts that all needed stitches.” Andrew moves his eyes from the tight white bandages around Neil’s arm to his shallowly-rising chest. “I broke three of your ribs giving you CPR, so the fourth must have broken after the explosion.” He doesn’t bother mentioning the minor nicks and bruises, the injuries that will heal in just a few days.

“If I don’t move, I can’t feel any of it,” Neil claims, though Andrew knows that his tolerance for painkillers is too high for that to be true.

But Andrew doesn’t challenge him. “Hopefully we can keep you drugged-up enough over the next few days that you won’t feel it even when you are moving.”

Andrew pats Neil’s thigh hard enough to send reverberations into his torso, and he watches closely for signs of pain. Neil winces and glares, but other than a bland, “Was that really necessary?” he doesn’t bitch about the pain.

“Let’s go now,” Andrew says, easing off of the bed, “before it’s time for your next dose. You’re no use to me if you’re unconscious, so I’d like to save that for the road.” He’s also starting to get anxious, sitting around in a hospital like meat ready for slaughter. It’s been really fucking quiet, considering that this is the closest hospital to the Langham and there was certainly enough effort put in to taking them down at the hotel.

“Gotta have someone to watch your six,” Neil says while Andrew helps him move to the edge of the bed, steadying him for a moment before going for the bag Dan had dropped off for them. “Speaking of, are the others home already, then?” Neil asks, working at the ties on his gown despite how much that must hurt.

Andrew drops the bag beside Neil on the bed and tugs open the zipper. The orange bottle of morphine is sitting right there on the top. His leg and shoulder and _everything_ fucking hurt, and the pills are so goddamn tempting. Andrew’s jaw clenches, and he shoves the bottle to the bottom of the bag rougher than needed.

Neil’s hand flutters like a panic attack over Andrew’s arm. “We can get you something else for the pain. Tylenol even. Better than nothing.”

“Not a high priority right now,” Andrew says, but his body relaxes at Neil’s touch, at his concern. He leans over and presses a lingering kiss to Neil’s forehead, and then another to his lips. He drops the conversation. “They should have landed by now, yes. Why, upset that Kevin hasn’t called yet with concern over his favorite agent?”

Neil smacks Andrew’s arm. “Asshole.”

A careful game of tug-of-war is involved in getting Neil out of his gown and into street clothes, but eventually he’s sitting in sweatpants and one of Andrew’s long-sleeved v-necks with his shoes shoved into sneakers and his hair looking bed-mussed. He looks so… normal that it throws Andrew off for a moment, seeing him in a hospital setting.

“What?” Neil asks, because of course he notices every small fluctuation in Andrew’s expression.

Andrew’s mouth tips down, just a fraction. Even now, after knowing Neil for years, it’s unsettling how well Neil understands him, reads him. He narrows his gaze and lets his eyes dance along Neil’s collarbone. “I like the way you look in my clothes. I would like it even better if you weren’t shot to hell or pretending you weren’t.”

Neil makes a face that garners none of Andrew’s sympathy. “I’m not pretending. I just didn’t think you would appreciate my non-stop bitching about how much pain I’m in. I haven’t seen you say a single thing about your injuries, and you aren’t even on painkillers.” Fuck but Neil could go from zero to a hundred in less than a second, especially if he’s low on offense and sees his cutting tongue as his only defense.

Silence takes the room for a moment while Andrew gives Neil a chance to draw a few breaths. They don’t need to be fighting with each other, not here, not now when there are unknown people after them for unknown reasons, when both of them are injured. Although it’s not like _that_ situation is going to change for the better any time soon. Eventually, Andrew walks over to the other side of the room and grabs the waiting wheelchair and the crutches.

“Where are we going?” Neil asks through gritted teeth as Andrew helps transfer him into the wheelchair.

Andrew stays quiet while he tries to figure out just how in the hell he’s meant to walk with crutches and push Neil at the same time. He finally just discards one of the crutches across Neil’s lap and opts to use the other like a cane. “Dan left a car parked outside,” he says. “St. Louis is a bet of a trek, but you’re not cleared for flying yet and I’ll be damned if I’m getting on a plane right now. There’s a safe house waiting for us.”

He pushes his fingers through Neil’s curls and gives a tug. “Stay alert until we get to the car. You can sleep all the way to St. Louis if you want.” He wishes that they had weapons, but Dan couldn’t manage to sneak any into the hospital. Andrew has his knives, still tucked away into his armbands, but he’s slow now with a thigh injury and knives aren’t much good when dealing with semi-automatic assault weapons.

Neil snorts, leaning into Andrew’s touch while it’s there. “You just don’t want to deal with the staff on your own.”

Andrew doesn’t deny it. They’re not married yet, so he has no control over signing Neil out of the hospital. The idiot is just going to have to do that himself. He wheels them out of the room without checking the hallway first, and Neil nearly has a seizure over it.

“What the fuck?” he hisses in German, whipping his head around to glare at Andrew.

“Calm down.” Andrew gives a flat look to a nurse staring at them with wide eyes and a slack expression. “We would know if they were in here. Dan tried to bring us guns and couldn’t get past the front door.”

Neil turns slowly back around, probably hurting now more than before. “A metal detector isn’t going to stop a bunch of determined agents.”

“Stopped us,” Andrew says. “Besides, if they wanted to push forward anyway, there would be a lot of shooting right now, and the hospital would be on lockdown.”

Andrew wheels them to a stop in front of the elevators, resting his hand on Neil’s shoulder, reassured by the warmth of his skin, the lack of death in the face of how fucking _alive_ he is. Seeing Neil dead, holding him and trying to force his heart to start beating again… Andrew has never been more terrified.

The wide elevator door creaks open in the achingly slow way all hospital elevators do. Three people trickle out – one nurse and two civilians probably here to see a patient. Andrew pushes Neil inside, and he closes the door immediately so that they’re alone on their way to the ground floor.

“I don’t think they were amateurs,” Neil says, continuing in German despite them being alone. “An M4 isn’t a professional choice, but the shooter obviously knew what they were doing. The men on the ground knew _exactly_ what they were doing.”

“No,” Andrew agrees. “They were professionals. Just not of our caliber.” It’s not cockiness, it’s honesty. If they had been as good as Neil and him, then the job would have ended very differently.

“A hit job?” Neil muses.

“Doubtful,” Andrew says. “Anyone confident enough to use an M4 instead of a .50 cal. isn’t going to be stupid enough to aim at a non-vital area, even through glass.”

“I did die, though.”

Andrew’s jaw clenches at the unwelcome reminder, the ease with which Neil says it. “I don’t think that was the intent,” he says once his grip relaxes on the wheelchair. “A headshot would have been quicker.”

Neil makes a noise of acquiescence and then tips his head in a way that signals him lost in thought. Andrew taps the top of his head with a knuckle. “Don’t think too hard. I’m sure you lost some brain cells in your time of death.”

“Oh, fuck off.” But Andrew can hear the smile in his voice. Dumbass.

“You’re getting predictable,” Andrew says, scowling afterwards because he hadn’t meant to say it.

“Hm?” Neil glances over his shoulder to look at Andrew. After a few seconds of Andrew not meeting his eyes, he turns back around. “Good thing you’re not trying to kill me, then.”

The elevator eases to a stop and dings that they’ve made it to the first floor. “Not yet,” Andrew says, readjusting his crutch and pushing Neil out of the way of a young woman waiting to get on.

There’s a line of one at the nurse’s station, and Andrew wheels Neil into place behind the older man who’s five seconds away from getting into an argument with the exhausted nurse. Fucking baby boomers.

Now that they’re in the lobby, Andrew becomes more alert, spine straightening, feet planted squarely. He pushes aside the scream of pain down his leg and just leans a little harder on the crutch. They’re out in the open now. It would be impossible to shoot at them from a point of elevation across the street, but so easy to take a step inside the front door, double tap a trigger, and walk away. Or, more likely, poor in like ants and surround them, taking them down without a fight given Neil’s and his conditions. Fuck. He hates feeling hunted. It’s not a sensation that he’s used to.

“Hey,” Neil says, pressing his hand into Andrew’s. Neil’s tense, too, but his eyes are soft and earnest. “Deep breath. The nurse is waiting for us.” Andrew looks up and, sure as shit, the old man is fifteen feet off to the side talking to someone else, and the nurse is giving them a tired smile.

“Going home?” she asks when Andrew wheels them up the rest of the way.

“Yeah. Neil Josten. Birthday: January nineteenth of ninety-one.”

The nurse smiles a thanks and types into her computer. A moment passes, and the smile slips, and she types something else. Andrew watches the confidence leech out of her eyes as she realizes exactly what’s going on. “But…” She looks at Neil, then up at Andrew and back down to Neil. “You’ve only been here for a day. You were _shot_.”

Neil nods, being very reasonable as far as Andrew is concerned. “Yes. And I’m going home. I just need to sign myself out and I won’t be your problem anymore.”

The nurse blinks, opens her mouth and shuts it like a talking doll whose batteries have died. “But you need treatment.”

“Believe me, this is nothing new. My fiancé seems to have signed himself out already with no problems. Please, I just want to go home.”

Andrew bites hard on his tongue as that word rolls off of Neil’s. It’s been a long time since “please” has been anything more than casually annoying, but it’s a gut reaction to hurt when he hears it.

Seconds pass and Andrew gets more irate as they go. He and Neil need to get out of here, not sit around arguing with nurses about whether or not it’s smart to go home. Generally, no, it wouldn’t be, but right now, under these circumstances, it would be stupid as fuck to stick around. Finally, the nurse sighs and prints off the paper for Neil to sign, and they’re free.

“Putting this on the record,” Neil says right before they push outside, “it would be faster if I was walking.”

“Sure,” Andrew says. “And then I would have to deal with an unconscious _bleeding_ idiot instead of a healing one.”

“Oh, you’re in a great mood aren’t you?”

“I’ll be all better once I don’t have to deal with your smart mouth for five hours.”

Neil laughs and then stutters off into pained wheezes. Andrew doesn’t take the time to stop and smack the idiot’s head, but his palm itches for it.

They’re not even exposed for all that long – they just have to cross the street; Dan snagged one of five spots adjacent to a long stretch of grass – but Andrew feels naked for all the lack of protection they have. And when they do reach the car, it’s a struggle for Andrew to keep his motions controlled and even, to not just stuff Neil into the passenger seat and drive like hell.

He takes a breath instead and pops the trunk, taking out a Walther for Neil and a Beretta for himself. He sets both weapons on Neil’s lap and shoves a rifle into the backseat along with the bag from the hospital room. He helps Neil inside as carefully as possible, half-lifting him into the passenger seat and wiping the ring of sweat from his forehead once his seatbelt is on. He wants to say fuck the wheelchair, but he folds that up and shoves it into the trunk, and then he’s in the driver’s seat and the engine is roaring at a slight twist of his fingers.

“Here,” Andrew says, reaching into the back for the bag. He takes out the container of morphine and a bottle of water. Two pills are dumped into Neil’s waiting palm, and, after Andrew takes a drink of water, that gets passed over as well.

Neil drains half of the water before giving it back to Andrew, who twists the cap back on and drops it into the cup holder. “Stop at a gas station for some Tylenol,” Neil says, folding his arms around his waist and settling into the seat as Andrew pulls out.

“As soon as we’re out of the city,” Andrew promises. As soon as they’re safe.

“Good.” Neil falls silent after that, and Andrew focuses on weaving them through the traffic, following the route he had memorized while Neil was in surgery. Andrew isn’t sure when exactly the morphine kicked in, but by the time Andrew merges onto the interstate and has a chance to look over, Neil is fast asleep and temporarily pain-free.


	4. Chapter 4

Neil doesn’t wake up until Andrew slides the car to a stop in St. Louis, and Andrew’s glad for it. The last two hours were absolute agony, and if Neil had been awake, he probably would have done something stupid – like volunteer to drive.

“We here already?” Neil asks, scrubbing at his eyes with his right hand while his left slides almost unconsciously over his abdomen.

Andrew doesn’t respond, because Neil can figure that out for himself. His whole body tight with pain, Andrew closes his eyes and tips his head back, letting out a sharp breath. He’s been driving for so long now that his body still thinks it’s in motion, a thrumming energy kicking up the pain in his leg to a nearly unmanageable level.

“Drew?” Concern pushes the drowsiness from Neil’s voice. “Hey. Andrew, look at me.”

Andrew opens his eyes and rotates his head slowly to the side. There’s a little bit of color in Neil’s cheeks, and his eyes are bright. He’s going to need another dose of morphine soon, but for now he’s got to be feeling pretty good.

A frown tugs at Neil’s lips. “You didn’t stop for Tylenol, did you?” he accuses.

“No time,” Andrew says. “We were being followed.” Neil’s eyes widen just a fraction, and Andrew hears the click of a safety being flicked off. Andrew reaches out to catch Neil’s chin before Neil can look any more like an owl scoping out their surroundings. “Relax. I lost them in Jefferson City.”

“Jefferson…” Neil’s eyes unfocus, and Andrew can imagine him studying a map in his head. His frown deepens. “Andrew, what the fuck? How long have you been driving?” Neil’s touch is gentle when he takes Andrew’s hand from his chin and laces their fingers together despite the bite of his tone. But Neil has always been a study in contradictions.

“Too long,” Andrew says. “Just give me a moment.” He opens his door and slowly twists in his seat despite Neil’s aborted noise of protest. It hurts like a bitch to stretch his leg out straight after so long in the car, but it feels good in the same breath, like the burn of muscles after a satisfying workout.

The passenger door opens, but Andrew doesn’t waste his breath snapping at Neil for being stupid. He’d just be called a hypocrite for his troubles. The door shuts hard enough to rock the car, and then Neil is in Andrew’s field of view, using a hand on the hood of the car to keep himself steady. He tilts Andrew’s door open as far as it’ll go and pushes himself into Andrew’s space but doesn’t touch him. Andrew finds himself wanting to put his hands on Neil, to hold him close and once more reassure himself that they made it out more or less in one piece.

Neil’s become an expert on Andrew. “Come on,” he says, grasping Andrew’s hand and tugging. “Grab your gun and let’s go inside. We can come back out later for the other stuff. Knowing Wymack, this place is already stocked.”

Andrew stares at Neil for a moment that’s likely too long. It goes against his instincts and training to leave items in an easy-to-break-into space, but Neil is in front of him and his engagement ring is settled against his sternum; nothing else is important enough to kick up a fuss about. He grabs the morphine bottle from the cup holder, tucks it into a pocket, and then lets Neil help him to his feet.

Immediately, Andrew staggers against the side of the car, grasping at the roof just to stay on his feet. Neil’s body tucks itself against Andrew’s side, his shoulder lodged under Andrew’s armpit. “You should have stopped between Jefferson City and here,” Neil chastises, closing the door and gritting his teeth as he takes more of Andrew’s weight.

“Fuck you,” Andrew says through his clenched jaw, working on getting his leg to work. But there’s a hole in his damn thigh, and apparently the muscles aren’t thrilled about supporting his weight.

Neil takes the key fob from Andrew so that he can lock the car. “How the hell were you functioning at the hospital?” he asks after pocketing the keys and starting to take steps around the car and onto the sidewalk.

“One seventeen,” Andrew directs, gesturing towards the townhouse he means. “And they gave me a local.” The doctor hadn’t been happy about not being able to give Andrew something more potent, but after a very terse conversation about Andrew’s history with addictive medication, the doctor relented.

“That’ll do it,” Neil says – and then he laughs. “Oh, god, that old lady’s face.”

Andrew turns in time to see taupe curtains slide closed on the townhouse two down from theirs. “Nosy busybody.”

Neil snorts. “Wonder if she’ll try to bring us a casserole just to pry into our business.”

“Might be worth it if she’s a good cook. Gonna get tired of canned food real fast.”

“Oh, stop complaining,” Neil says, his voice light until he starts struggling while helping Andrew up the steps. Andrew does his best to hold up his own weight, no matter how desperately his leg tries to give out. “Just a little longer,” Neil says. It takes a moment for him to get the key in the lock and give it a twist, and then they’re shoving inside the little brick townhouse and slamming the door shut behind them with an echoing sigh of relief.

They collapse onto the sofa together, groaning in unison at the shock to their injuries, but fuck it’s so much better than standing. “You need to lay down,” Neil says, tugging on Andrew’s sleeve. “Stretch your leg out. Is it bleeding yet?”

Andrew grunts, and that’s the only response he gives Neil as he eases himself down, head on Neil’s thigh and foot propped up on the arm rest. Breath hitching in pain, he grabs Neil’s hand and squeezes, comforted by the sure way Neil squeezes back. When Andrew can breathe right, he says, “Not sure if it’s bleeding. Don’t care enough to check.” He doesn’t want Neil to check, either. They both need to rest, take it easy, but Neil especially. Andrew won’t have the dumbass dying on him again.

“Alright,” Neil says. The skittering way his thumb sweeps over Andrew’s knuckles is something new, but Andrew likes it anyway. He does it back, and when he glances up at Neil’s face, Neil’s smiling.

A quick look at the front of Neil’s shirt tells Andrew that he didn’t pop any stitches, either. Satisfied that they’re not going to bleed out if they fall asleep, Andrew sets his gun on the coffee table and closes his eyes.

What feels like only moments later, the clatter of keys and a closing door startle him awake. He feels seven, twelve, sixteen again, pulse buzzing and eyes wide. He’s still on the sofa, but Neil’s thigh is no longer under his head.

No, the little shit is staring at him from the doorway as he steps out of his shoes. “I brought you some Tylenol. And something other than canned vegetables and spam for supper.”

Andrew wants to be angry at Neil not only for leaving, but for moving around with internal stitches on a day-old bullet wound, but the look he gives Andrew as he approaches makes him decide to not fight this battle. He pushes up until he’s sitting and scrubs his hands over his face. It’s not really startling to him that he didn’t wake up when Neil left; he had been so fucking exhausted after the drive.

“How long –.” He clears his throat, voice rough. “How long were you gone?”

Neil drops the keys on the coffee table and threads his fingers through Andrew’s hair on his way to the kitchen. “Not even an hour,” he says over the rustle of plastic bags. “I already brought most of the guns inside, too.”

Sure enough, when Andrew sweeps his gaze around the room, he finds the guns in their bags and cases stacked up neat by the mouth of a hallway. “You’re overcompensating. Come sit your ass down. I don’t trust you with the food.”

“Okay, you know, you don’t have to be an ass about it,” Neil says, moving back into Andrew’s space to lower himself onto the sofa. Separate from his smile and relative good mood, Andrew can see how much pain he’s in. “Take some of these.” Neil passes over a small bottle of Tylenol and a bottle of water.

Andrew pours four Tylenol into his palm and tosses them back with a swig of water. “We could have ordered take out,” Andrew says, offering the water back to Neil.

“Can’t order Tylenol, though, and I didn’t want you getting desperate enough to take some morphine.”

It’s an odd feeling, the tight clench of Andrew’s chest, the tremble in his fingers when he reaches out to set his hand on Neil’s knee. He thinks, though, that it might not be a bad feeling. “Thank you,” he says, leveling a serious look at Neil so that he doesn’t ruin the moment by saying something stupid.

Neil’s smile is slow to creep across his face, a rainbow after a tornado, and it’s every bit as tender as Neil isn’t. “I told you I was going to watch your six.” He makes it sound so easy, putting himself in jeopardy for Andrew’s wellbeing. Andrew’s used to doing that for other people – for his family – without question. That’s how he came to work for Wymack in the first place. He’s just not so used to people doing that for him.

“Oh, hey.” Neil’s smile suddenly drops, and he shifts onto his hip so seamlessly…. If Andrew hadn’t brought the fucker back to life himself, he’d be doubting whether or not the bullet was ever inside of Neil. The morphine can’t be that good, but fuck Andrew hates thinking that Neil is so used to this sort of pain that it barely registers with him anymore. “I bought a burner. Just in case you wanted to call Wymack and bitch him out or something.” He’s got a wicked glint in his eyes that says if Andrew doesn’t, Neil’s going to.

“All yours,” Andrew says. He wants Wymack to know that he’s not happy about staying in a goddamn safe house in fucking _Missouri_ , and the best way to do that is to inflict Neil upon him. “Just make sure you get after him about acquiring us some intel. We can’t do much from here, but I want to know everything they know.”

Neil nods. He tips his body sideways until he comes to rest against Andrew, a place they both enjoy him being. “We’re going to need some hardware – computers, new phones, more firepower than the small amount Dan was able to leave us. If Renee could cook us up some new shit, I’m sure you would enjoy that.”

“You need to learn to adapt to the age of technology,” Andrew says, fingers finding their way into Neil’s hair. “Rope and hammers and bullets can only get you so far.”

Neil hums, and Andrew can hear his fucking smirk when he says, “You rely too much on technology. I can get to the same end using different means – means that can’t be hacked, by the way – it would just take me a couple of days longer. I think I’ll stick with my old-school shit and save your ass when technology inevitably fails you.”

“Cocky little shit,” Andrew says. “Ask Aaron if he’ll get you the new Walther model. I heard it’s got a better grip on it, and a better placement for the clip release.” The Walther was Neil’s mother’s preferred gun, and Neil picked up the habit of using it during his years running with her from his father. Andrew finds the guns too weighty on the fore end and prefers his Berettas. He’s not a good enough shot to be dealing with something that doesn’t feel like an extension of his arm.

Andrew gives himself another minute to bask in Neil’s warmth, to relax and wake up and pretend that, maybe, they can figure this out quickly and go back to normal by week’s end. Maybe they won’t be running with only long-distance help for more than a few days. But he’s already wasted enough time sleeping. If someone wants them dead – or at least one of them dead – well… Andrew has too much to lose. And that’s just as frightening as the pressure in his chest any time he looks at Neil.

It takes a moment to convince his leg to work, but eventually he gets to his feet. The Tylenol kicked in, at least, so the sharp void of pain has been reduced to an aching pulse. It’s manageable, at least, which is all Andrew needs to be able to walk around the sofa and enter the small kitchen.

Neil wasn’t able to pick up much, apparently. Probably just shopping out of a convenience store. But that means milk, at least, and some bread and probably questionable cheese and meat, and a frozen pizza. A bag of gummy worms is propped up against an energy drink, and Andrew shakes his head. It’s a poor attempt to apologize for leaving alone and wounded, but damned if it doesn’t work.

As soon as the oven is preheating, Andrew rips open the bag of gummies and leans against the counter. Neil’s voice floats to him, a mockingly cheerful, “Hi, David,” starting the whole thing off. Maybe it’s not Wymack’s fault that this happened, but Andrew gets so much satisfaction out of Neil constructively – for once – chewing someone out.

By the time the pizza comes out of the oven, Neil has migrated into the kitchen and left his argument in the living room. Andrew uses a knife when he comes up short in his search for a pizza cutter, and Neil laughs when Andrew just cuts the damn thing into fourths and they eat standing up. It’s a stupidly peaceful evening to spend after a visit from death. It’s a normal evening – not for them, but for civilians. For the first time in a long time, Andrew gets a taste of what living with Neil could be like if they weren’t doing this, if Neil wasn’t an adrenaline junky and Andrew determined to keep him alive. They could live like this, coming home from boring jobs, Neil smiling like _that_ over a wide slice of greasy frozen pizza.

That’s not their life, though. It won’t be. Thinking about it is only going to lead to wishing for it, and wishing has never gotten Andrew anywhere. If dying didn’t change Neil’s mind, nothing will.

Andrew drops his empty plate on the counter and leaves the kitchen for the front steps. Neil catches up to him in his own time, a slight hitch in his step and kick in his breathing the only signs that he’s struggling. The twitch in Andrew’s fingers is as much a debate on whether to offer Neil help sitting as it is the desire for nicotine. He’s been without all day.

Neil drops to his ass and settles with a groan. Andrew fights the urge to bounce his foot, to bite his cheek, to shred his fingernails between his teeth. He should quit, cut the habit off like an infected limb. But his lungs feel small when his oxygen isn’t thick and grey, and his thoughts can exhale only when he force-feeds his body chemicals. He’s an addict because he knows what addiction feels like, and he’ll avoid it in everything except this and Neil.

“What happened in there?” Neil asks. His palms are on either side of his ass, gripping the edge of the step like he’s trying to plant the cement into his skin. Andrew only knows the worry in Neil’s voice is _for_ him and not a result _of_ him because the bulk of the day is at his back. Every morning Andrew has three seconds of disbelief and five whole minutes of fear that he is Drake and Sean and Stephen, that he is not what Neil wants and the last thing Neil needs. And, some days, it feels as if Neil spends the whole day convincing Andrew otherwise.

“Just a bad taste in my mouth,” Andrew says. Maybe Neil wants him to say more, but he doesn’t. Far down the street, a child’s laughter rings like sleigh bells, and next door the television turns the curtains blue.

Neil makes a contemplative sound and reaches into his pocket. “Maybe these’ll help?” The pack of cigarettes is unopened in Neil’s hand, proffered between slender fingers, white and red paper glinting underneath thin plastic. Andrew keeps his hand from shaking when he takes it, ripping the plastic off and letting it fall, then thinking better of that and snatching it from the ground to shove in his pocket. A cigarette is out and between his lips before he realizes he doesn’t have a lighter.

“And some people still think you don’t care about anything,” Neil says, laughter barely bitten back as he hands Andrew a lighter.

Andrew glares even as he lights up, dragging to keep the cigarette burning. “And some people still think you’re quiet,” Andrew says, passing over the cigarette before igniting his own. “People are rarely as smart as they think they are.”

Neil waves the cigarette in front of his face and makes a noise of agreement. “Yeah, I’d drink to that. Even if I know you’re including me on that list.”

Andrew wasn’t, but he’s not going to tell Neil otherwise. He smiles, though, a fleeting thing that he can feel on his face even once it’s gone. “That’s because you’re a dumbass,” Andrew says, even as he drapes his arm over Neil’s shoulders, pulling him in as he takes a drag of his cigarette.


End file.
